Herein is a greeting gentler than the summer nights on “the Ra’i Mountain” in the countryside and a longing by the imprisoned bird for the blue mountain which it glances at through its cage.

The cessation of correspondence between us during this long and boring period is extremely painful to me.

I wrote you a letter a long time ago, but no news came back from you. Perhaps the “Postal Administration” has done it again and severed the cord of correspondence between us as it did last summer. At any rate, may God forgive us both for falling prey to the habit of responding only to the letters that we have each received.

I write these pages to you from a grassy meadow in the countryside where I sit in the shadow of a towering palm tree with the breeze blowing through the gigantic trees in front of me as they turn their faces away from the setting sun. On both my right and left sides are two “love scenes”. On the right, not too far from me, stands a huge tree that shelters two lovers on a rainy winter day… You are the poet and your imagination enables you to picture the situation. On my left, what should I say? A gazing female sheep, but who is the shepherdess? You know her. It is “she,” yes, “she” who concealed herself behind the palm trunks away from the gazes of her lover whom she deserted.

Wretched is love… Your compassion sustains me, and your friendship fulfills me. By God, you are the dearest to me, second only to my father and to my mother, both of whom are embodied in the person of my father. Yes, this is the truth. I say it without flattery and without desiring from you the same love or even half of it. Yes, I have known my friend, Assama’il, before I knew you, but he ranks below you. Do I really care too much for the harm that befalls me since you are my brother whom I hope to meet soon? I have passed (the final exams), and I hope that you have done so, too. I will come to Baghdad where I will meet you, and we will live together and wander around and recite poetry, and…and… Oh, God, when will my hand knock at the door of that house “number 1/14” and ask for Khalid and behold him..?

When will that day arrive, the day I peruse the faces of the people at the train station and see that brilliant countenance … the countenance of my brother, the poet, “Khalid?” When..? When..?

Let us move forward after all these preludes to talk about poetry, and if time allows, we can also talk about “love.”

I admire your beautiful poem, “In My Bed,” but I admire you even more. I love this piece very much, and I always recite it especially while in bed. You have comforted my wounds by saying:

“Be content today with what…”“That of which you complain will become“Memories that provoke (flood) tears.”

Who among those when afflicted with calamity does not hear someone comforting him, saying: “This, too, shall pass?” However, your line seems as if it does not relate to this saying at all. The sublimity of the line elevates it higher than the popular proverb. This sublimity which is derived from the memories which “provoke (flood) —-tears”…. I congratulate you, my brother, for this poem which refutes the premise of the novices of literature, those who call themselves “Innovators.” You have proven to them that the unified rhyme and the “firmly established” meters, as they call it, is capable of following the movement of innovation.

Innovation is what our great writers like al-Zayyat, al-Rafi’i, and others say, not that which the authors, who use multiple rhyme and meters in one poem, claim. Those authors choose “short and daring”meters such as Mustaf”ilun - Fa’lu.” Certainly, innovation, as our great writers say, is: novelty in the topic, unity in the subject matter, outburst of imagination towards the ideas that the topic of the poem evokes, and the memories and goals that pertain to it. (This is in addition to flawlessness in pronunciation and style…) All this is present in your poem… [Poem omitted]

Time is of the essence, but with you, time is of no consequence…May God help me. My father journeyed to al-Kut, and he entrusted me with the affairs of the house. During the day, I cross the long road to the marketplace, and I return at noon exhausted. I lie down to make up for the time I stay awake at night for fear of thieves (laugh at me), and I do not feel rested until close to sunset. When my father returns, I will write you a long letter with many poems.

Hurry with a response for I am eager to hear about your news…. your health, your success, how you spend your days, and what you have composed.

Take care of yourself for me.

Your sincere brother,Badr Shakir al-Sayyaab

[From the book, al-Sayyab’s Letters, by Majid al-Samurra’i, (Beirut: Al-Mu’assasa al-‘Arabiya li-al-dirasat wa-al-Nashr, Second Edition, 1994, p. 62) Translated from the original Arabic and with an introduction by George Nicolas El-Hage, Ph.D., Columbia University.]

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